


Life with a pretty boy

by 898700 (ghostwriter)



Series: Undercover pretty boy [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Model, F/M, Gen, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriter/pseuds/898700
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is in the same universe as my "Life as a pretty boy" fic, where Reid is an undercover CIA agent posing as a male supermodel. These are snippets from before and after Reid meets each member of the BAU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aaron "Hotch" Hotchner

**Author's Note:**

> I strongly suggest reading the previous story first, as some bit won't probably make sense otherwise.

"The team is going to Boston," Gideon says as soon as the three of them are seated. Although annoyed at Strauss' choice, Hotch says nothing, because he's already voiced all his doubts, and he's not one for repeating himself. Furthermore, he knows for a fact that Jason agrees with him, so venting now would be preaching to the choir.

"And?" Morgan asks. He's probably wondering about his presence at Gideon's office, Hotch supposes, which shouldn't be a surprise as Hotch is wondering himself. He likes the Agent, he even trusts him with his life; but right now Morgan is the youngest BAU member, and not exactly the person expected to confer with the team leader and his second in command.

Gideon's raised eyebrow as they briefly link eyes tells him the man knows exactly what Hotch is thinking.

"And, you're staying at Quantico."

" _What_?" The look in Morgan's face is at the same time enraged, incredulous and a bit hurt. "We are talking about a _bomber_ here," he says, turning to look Hotch for a moment as if trying to make him understand. Hotch simply looks at him, not changing his expression. He has no idea as to what Gideon is doing, but he's learned that a united front from the leadership is a must.

Gideon is, as expected, equally close-faced.

"Our technical analyst quit," he says, and Hotch almost hears the _'again'_ that doesn't follow. "None of the available technical analysts knows the FBI bombers' database the way you do."

Plus, none of the available technical analysts is willing to work with the BAU, Hotch knows for a fact. They've been bringing in and sending away analysts at a pace that'd be ridiculous, if Hotch hadn't seen Gideon expecting them to be miracle workers while at the same time ignoring their contributions.

Morgan's thoughts, of course, follow a different path.

"I'm a field agent," he says, insulted. "That means I _go to the field_ , and I _see things firsthand_ \- bombs, particularly, as I _happen_ to be your resident bomb expert!"

"The Boston's bomb squad will be your eyes and hands," Gideon's answer sounds dismissive to Morgan, Hotch knows. Having known the older man for a few years now, Hotch knows that's not the case.

There's something else worrying Gideon's mind.

"What aren't you telling?" he ventures, both to prevent Morgan's further ranting and because there's this nagging feeling telling him he's not going to like what Gideon has to say.

Gideon nods, his smile making Hotch feel, as always, like he can't hide anything from the man. "I have news for you," he starts, pausing long enough to make Morgan twitch on his seat, even if Hotch, the one under the stare, doesn't move. "Strauss has reconsidered. Congratulations, you are the B Team's leader."

Hotch keeps himself in check. Morgan, on the other hand, is looking at the two of them in undisguised surprise, which is to be expected, as Gideon has only discussed his idea, and his failure to convince Strauss, with Hotch.

"Why now?"

As response, a file lands in front of Hotch. He knows it well enough to notice the main difference from when he checked it last, less than two hours ago. He takes out the _before_ picture of a pretty blonde young woman. Morgan looks at it with curiosity, his eyes lighting up with recognition almost immediately.

"Isn't that-?"

"The younger daughter of an influential Senator," he interrupts before Morgan says the name. Hotch grew up in a political world. He knows how to navigate it, how to _survive_ in it - but as of late, as he's been covering more and more of the administrative part of the work for Gideon, the frequent clashes with The Powers have been making him hate politics.

"The B Team will cover the Los Angeles case," Gideon explains, his face contrite when he adds, "Unfortunately, at the moment _you_ are the B Team."

"Do they really expect him to solve a case on his own?"

Hotch frowns, because Morgan might be new, but surely he has to know the story of the BAU. "That won't be a problem," he says, further explaining after noticing how arrogant he sounds, "As much as we work as a team now, most of us started working at the Unit on a solo basis."

"And he'll have you for remote technical support," Gideon says, effectively preventing Morgan from being embarrassed, and making him angry instead.

It is going to be a really long week.

"Dr. Reid is based in Los Angeles," he says once Morgan has stormed out, fortunately unaware of the fact that his boss has been goading him on purpose.

He is pleased with himself when Gideon startles at his words. It only lasts a second, of course, but to Hotch trained eye it helps him add another piece of information to the relationship between the older man and enigmatic Dr. Reid.

"And?" Gideon says, looking him over the rim of his reading glasses. His face is calm and bland again, giving away nothing.

"I could use a hand with the geographic profile." It is true and they both know it, the case involves at least another twelve bodies, all of them homeless, whores or drug addicts, or all of the above. Despite the sparseness of the files, there's enough information for a geographic profile to be of help. And, as much as Hotch and the rest of the BAU are familiar with the process of constructing one, they usually consult with Dr. Reid when expediency is needed - and in this case it is.

But of course, that's not exactly what Hotch is asking for.

"I'm not sure he'll agree to meet with you." Hotch nods at the words. He has worked alongside Gideon's expert for a year and a half, and not once has he seen or heard the man directly. "But if he does, I expect you to look beyond appearances."

And that is all Hotch needs to confirm his theory. And whatever the reasons for the man to hide behind emails and voice synthesizers, whether Dr. Reid is disfigured or disabled, or maybe a well known academic unwilling to publicly link himself to the FBI, Hotch knows he can look past the body and work with the mind.

He's been doing it for eighteen months, after all.

* * *

"Yes?" he asks, opening the hotel's room only a crack. There's a young man, the same he saw from the peephole, smiling at him with familiarity despite being a complete stranger.

"Aaron, hey, you made it," the man says, using surprise to get into the room.

And by surprise Hotch means _a kiss_.

To his defense, Hotch isn't used to being kissed by complete strangers, men specially, and the step back that he takes is immediately followed by him raising his right hand, the one with the gun.

The man ignores it and moves past him, and taking a file from the bed he starts to flick through the pages too fast to really be reading it. "I'm sorry I didn't come earlier, but Jason told me you'd be at the station most of the day," he says.

Hotch brains kicks back into life, finally.

"Dr. Reid?" he asks, and although his voice sounds calm he feels nothing but. The man in front of him is much younger than he expected, and there's not a single blemish in his appearance. He is, in fact, oddly attractive, a concept Hotch finds hard to acknowledge with his lips still tingling after the unexpected contact.

"Right now I'm going under the name Matt Gray, so if you don't mind …" the man says, and trails off as he looks up from the file. "I, ah, promise not to attack you again."

Hotch frowns at the last words, until he realizes that he's still holding his weapon.

"I…" he starts, but doesn't know how to continue, so instead he walks to the bedside and puts the gun down. This puts him close to the other man in the room (and he can't think of him as Dr. Reid, he really can't), close enough to realize that although he seems nonchalant the top of his ears are rosy.

"I'm sorry," the man says, looking everywhere but at him, and as Hotch looks the blush spreads furiously. "But I need a cover for my presence in a federal agent's room, especially this late at night, and that seemed the best."

The silence that follows is awkward, but gives Hotch time to think. He picks up the files and drops them at the table, closing the laptop to have more space. The map is an exact copy to the one that hangs on the police station, and thus he knows it is too big to pin on any of the walls. The bed is their best choice, as the carpet is too fluffy to provide any support. He's not surprised when, after using his gun and phone to keep two corners from rolling back, they are followed by another phone and gun on the opposite side.

"I've been thinking of getting an ankle holster myself," he admits, latching onto a safe topic.

"I actually kind of hate it. My primary gun is a revolver."

It makes sense, Hotch realizes, looking at the second weapon, slightly smaller than his own, and then at the long, thin finger trailing down what has to be the third or fourth file.

Silent again, he moves to retrieve the markers from his bag, just to be rewarded by a small and distracted smile as he puts them on the bed.

And then it clicks.

"I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want something?" He's already jumping into his shoes, pulling his jacket on, looking for other suitable paperweights to substitute his gun and phone.

"Yes, thank you. Coffee with five sugars, and a coke and any sweet you can find."

He's still blinking when he passes the vending machines in the lobby. He can get what he needs from them, but there's another reason why he's going to the 7-11 around the corner. Once there he doesn't linger, but even the passing glance to the billboard on the other side of the street confirms his suspicious, and the short time he spends waiting for the cashier dispels any doubt. The young lithe form is using eyeliner, and his hair and clothes are in artistic disarray, but there's no mistaking him.

 _Fuck you, Gideon_ , he thinks, and snorts.


	2. Emily Prentiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid any possible confusion, I will repeat here what was said on the summary - these are snippets, not a single linear story; therefore, this chapter doesn't immediately follow the previous one but is in some way independent ... except for the fact that it takes place in the same Universe. Also, according to my head canon, Boston's bombing, Gideon taking a medical leave and Hotch stepping into the BAU's SAC position take place shortly after Chapter one. You don't need to know this to understand the fic, but I thought I should share with you the bits of this AU that didn't made into the story :).

Her smile is obviously fake, but there's a limit to how much shit she can handle. Her mother's friends and fellow diplomats, those she'll deal with; but those airheaded men who think she should fawn all over them just because they are rich and/or famous and/or from an old and rancid family? Hell no.

"I'm not desperate enough to turn cougar over you, lover-boy, but I'm sure you'll have more luck everywhere else. And if you're not picky, there has to be some sugar daddy in the room looking for a cute thing just like you."

So okay, that is kind of bitchy, but younger and prettier than her is not how she likes her men.

"I think you've just managed to insult seventy eight point seventy five percent of those present," an amused voice says barely loud enough for just her to listen. And, surely, when she turns, young-and-pretty is looking at her with a mischievous twinkle in suddenly too clever eyes.

"Only seventy eight?" she asks, her mind reeling. Surely this isn't the man Clyde wanted her to meet. That he's not as banal as she first believed doesn't mean he has that much depth, does it? "I was aiming higher."

"Well, there are those who don't care enough for your words to be insulting," he says, taking a coin out of who knows where and making it dance over his knuckles in a well practiced magician trick. "Are you really the USA Ambassador's progeny?"

And _that_ , exactly, is what makes it. There's only one person who's used exactly that same words, and that person is the one who asked for 'a favor, just this one time'.

"I'm going to kill him," she grumbles, and takes the lanky guy and a still unopened bottle of wine up to the guest room she's currently staying at. "I really hope you are who I think you are."

"And I really hope _you_ are who I think you are," he retorts, releasing his wrist from her grasp as soon as the door is closed, and moving with purpose all over the place, obviously looking for bugs. "You know, I'm used to being propositioned, but this being sneaked into a girl's bedroom while her mother is downstairs is a brand new experience."

He's so deadpan and clinical in his declaration that she can't help but smile. "What, weren't you a teenager? That's a motion detector," she explains when he finds the device she stuck under the night table, "and according to the receptor currently in my ear, nobody has been around since I left the room two hours ago."

He nods, and to her surprise starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Still, I assume you're carrying the document?" he adds after popping the last button, letting the shirt slide to the carpet, toeing his shoes off with practiced ease.

"I, uh, yes I do." It is a small, slim notebook, black and crammed in coded handwritten text, strapped to her inner thigh. She is flushed by the time she hands it, which isn't like her, but there's something in this man-child that makes her self-conscious.

It is obvious he notices, as he suddenly looks uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he offers, taking the book and looking anywhere but her. "I expected you'd be an agent, but now I realize that my contact was never explicit about it."

 _Oh god_ , she thinks, and flushes further. Now he thinks she's an inexperienced civilian, which is a big blow to her ego. But she doesn't correct him as, well … he already knows she's Ambassador Prentiss' daughter, and that's some information she's never felt like sharing. So she just mumbles "It is okay," and gingerly crosses to sit by his side on the soft bed.

It doesn't take a genius to understand what kind of scene he's staging, so she unzips her cocktail dress and discards it while he flips through the small book, an eye on the document and other on the door. Still, she reacts first when the door opens, straddling him in on one fluid movement just to let out a surprised gasp when his thumb brushes over her bare nipple. How did he open her bra so fast?

"Who the hell are you?" a man she doesn't know, but who has _Bratva_ written all over him, growls. That she's practically naked and obviously humping a half dressed man doesn't stop her mind from working, rapidly cataloging.

Then her mother enters the room and says "That's my daughter and her boy toy," and the clear disdain infuriates Emily into losing her cold mind. What is it about her mother that a few chosen words can dispel years of training and field experience?

It moves fast from there. The man, who's supposed to be a police officer looking for an escaped criminal, makes them get up and efficiently searches everywhere before taking her _boy toy_ with him. It all makes her feel dirty and in a desperate need of a cleansing shower.

Her mother's departing "And don't bring work into my home without my prior knowledge again" actually helps somewhat. As much as she hates her relationship with her mother, Emily can't help admiring the woman's sharpness.

She is climbing into bed six hours later, the New Year's gathering just winding down downstairs, when her cell phone rings.

 _"Did you deliver it earlier?"_ Clyde asks, and she takes the call is secure because otherwise he wouldn't be speaking so openly.

"You said tonight, I didn't know him, I didn't have another way to contact him, and you know what? Never ask a favor from me again." There's silence on the other side of the line, and if she knows her ex-leader, he's wondering whether she's finally cracking. So she tries to change the topic, "Why do you ask?" hoping he won't call the FBI to tell them the ex-Interpol agent they've just accepted is unfit to work.

 _"We have locations, five of them. The operation is scheduled to start in eight hours."_

Already?

"You said your KGB contacts hadn't been able to decode the notebook."

 _"I know, and they are not KGB anymore."_

"You said your SAS contacts hadn't been able to decode it either."

 _"Emily …"_

There's doubt in his voice, so she says what they both are thinking.

"Are you sure this isn't a trap?"

He sighs. _"We have satellite photographs. Everything fits into place."_ The _but_ is unvoiced but clear. She can imagine him, going over every available piece of information, trying to find the missing clues. He didn't survive spying for MI5 and leading Interpol's JTF-12 by doubting his instincts.

That he hasn't called off the whole thing means everything has passed his paranoid tests so far, though.

"Are you telling me the CIA did in a few hours what nobody else could in two weeks?"

His self-deprecating snort tells her he's already considering it, which … _wow_. The only thing Clyde Easter feels about the CIA is unwavering contempt, and apparently for good reasons. That he's willing to acknowledge they might have done something useful is nothing short of wondrous.

 _"Apparently it was coded into some sort of chemistry formulae. Which makes sense, as the man who wrote it was a kidnapped scientist."_

"And the CIA just happened to have a chemistry expert around to help them break the code. Don't you think it is a bit strange, Clyde?"

 _"Forget about the chemistry, Emily. They delivered a geographic profile based on the information three hours ago, there's no way they could have decoded, processed and analyzed all of it without prior knowledge. Most of my resources are focused on breaking into their mainframe and trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and so far the only unknown variable is your contact."_

Oh, so _that_ is why she got a call.

"Do you think he's a double agent?" It doesn't make sense, but she doesn't points it out. Clyde has to know that, otherwise she's going to seriously start doubting the man.

 _"I don't know what to think. I don't know his name, they won't share his dossier, and nobody even remotely CIA has entered Russian territory on the last days."_

"So …" she makes a gesture, as if motioning for him to continue, aware that he can't see it but sure that he knows her mannerisms well enough.

 _"So, you have a picture? Finger prints? A name, maybe?"_

They both know there's nothing. The orders were clear: disable all security systems for the night, don't ask for names, not even alias …

"Everything he touched is gone, sorry." _Unless you want to search my nipple_ , she doesn't say, because a) with Doyle still fresh in their memories, Clyde is likely to blow a gasket; and b) she already showered, so all evidence is irremediably lost.

There's nothing more she can do, so the call doesn't last much longer. And, being thrown into the change of life that is the FBI, it doesn't take long for her to shelve the incident deep in her mind, especially as Clyde never calls back to inform her of the operation results.

He doesn't need to, though; it is all in the news when she wakes up late, the first day of the year.

* * *

"If you tell them I kill you."

Matt Gray blinks at her, his face the perfect picture of innocence. It would work better if he had shown even a little bit of worry over the fact that an FBI agent just threatened to kill him, though.

"I really don't know what you're talking about, Agent … it is Prentiss, right? Tell what to whom?"

They are in LA, their UNSUB, one Davon Strada, finally where they want him: out of the streets and in an interrogation room with both Hotch and Rossi. Prentiss knows it won't be long before her team unwinds enough to start trying to unravel the next mystery, which currently takes the form of one male supermodel, slash CIA undercover agent.

"Don't fuck with me, Gray," she growls at him and storms away, too worried and angry to continue facing the man. She's known, right from the beginning, that her past is going to bite her in the ass eventually. There's nothing to be ashamed on her former career, but with how close the BAU is, that's not the problem: it is the secrecy.

She's spent too long a time winning her team's trust, just to have them start doubting her again due to her buried past.

* * *

He's waiting for her, months later, when she returns to her apartment after a thankfully too boring day at the office.

"I apologize for showing up unannounced," he says, looking nervous in a way that feels more natural that the cockiness she's witnessed on previous occasions. "But I, ah, have received an offer to join the FBI. The BAU, specifically."

She waits, but he doesn't continue.

"Why are you here, Gray? Should I say, _hey, congratulations_? Are you here to tell me I should pack and clear the way?"

"What? No! I just …" There's something terribly young in his eyes but she doesn't back down, and eventually it dissolves into weariness. "Look, I promise I won't tell them anything. As far as I know, LA was the first time we ever met, I'd never in my life seen you before, and there's no reason for me to believe you're anything other than a FBI profiler, okay?"

She nods reluctantly because that's what he seems to be expecting, even if there's no way she's going to trust so easily.

"I just wanted to know if it gets easier," he says, and she frowns, but he continues before she asks for clarification. "I feel like I've been lying half of my life, and the idea that I won't know how to be myself is, well, kind of terrifying. And there is, I have done things I'm not proud of, even if they needed to be done, but I worry that they'll see me, and they'll know, and …"

"And they'll judge. They spend their days tracking down the worst criminal minds, and you have been deep down there, even if just pretending. You have let things pass, things that no morally good person would have permitted, all in the name of the greater good. You have blood in your hands, and damaged souls in your name, and you feel dirty, and disgusting, and tainted, and you're ashamed of what they'll see when they see you."

And this time she knows that what she sees in his eyes is not a lie or a construction, but the innocence in him that got buried the moment he choose his career.

"Look, Gray, I can't promise nothing of it is going to happen, I worry for that myself now and then." She pauses, trying to soften her words. "And I don't know if you'll ever stop feeling this way, and I am sure sooner or later things are going to blow up. But it is a step in the right direction, and for me, at least, that is enough."

That earns her a nod but nothing else. He's still silent when she guides him to the door, but turns to her before she closes it.

"Actually, my name is Spencer Reid, although I'm not sure whether to ask people to call me Spencer, or Reid. Both choices are going to be weird to get used to, I fear."

She chuckles, because in the great context of things, a name is not that important.

"We'll have to figure it out, then," she offers, and he smiles back.


	3. Penelope Garcia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to write a happy, fluffy piece for Garcia, but this happened. Oh well; at least I finally covered the original kink promp request to have Lila Archer as Spencer's BFF.

"Do you have a death wish?" she finally says, breaking the silence. They have been working seamlessly alongside for almost four hours, Reid acting as if it is every day that he gets left behind.

"Did you know that the prevalence of the wish to die is not as strongly associated to depression as it once was thought? According to a survey made in Australia in the early nineties and later replicated in other countries, age, marriage status, visual and hearing impairment, along with poor health, disability and pain were found to strongly explain the wish to die, independently to mental health. If you keep in mind-"

"That I'm going to skin you alive if you keep talking about such a morbid subject when I'm already in serious need of some happy thoughts, Dr. Kevorkian."

"Ah … wouldn't that be counterproductive to your cheering up?"

"Not if I get a pretty genius leather bag out of it." It is kind of eerie, that she can get him to smile with such a gruesome joke. "Seriously, angel eyes, you have ouchies. Again. For what is like the fifth time in as many months."

"I, ah, am clumsy?" He is wearing his cute found-with-a-hand-in-the-cookie-jar face, which she usually finds irresistible.

This time, though, she has _fortitude_.

"So let me see if I get it. Your clumsiness made you jump in front of a man with a gun on your first field case with the BAU."

"I kind of tripped."

 _Tripped_. He can't really expect her to believe … "Forward and to the side," she says through clenched teeth, "and just in time to save JJ from being shot."

"It's a wonder how these things work, isn't it?"

Oh, so he thinks this is a joke?

"And your clumsiness made you take off your vest in Montana last month?"

"It would have dragged me down otherwise."

"You didn't have to jump into the river!" she explodes, rising from her chair and approaching him in what she knows is a very intimidating way. To her pleasure, she sees him nervously twitch before his mask falls back in place.

"I didn't jump, I fell."

"And then there is last week." She is now right in front of him, her right red pump touching his white cast. "You followed a serial killer, without backup, inside an old house."

"I had no idea it was going to collapse, you can't blame me for that."

She _hmms_ quietly, allowing seconds to tick by to let him simmer.

"What was your last doctorate in, _Dr_. Spencer Reid?" Penelope eventually asks, the feathered extreme of her pen tickling his nose.

"Engineering, but not as in Civil Engineering. I had no idea there was structural damage."

"Bullshit."

"Garcia?"

"I said bullshit. Bull. Shit. As in the shit of bull, which you, mister, are full of." To her pleasure, he remains silent. "I asked Morgan. You've been helping him in his properties, and guess what, Dr. Reid. It turns out you actually know a _lot_ about structures."

He is red and flustered, and although Penelope feels a little bad at making him uncomfortable, she knows no other way for her words to take.

"Look, I don't care if you keep secrets." No, that's not true. "Okay, I do care if you keep secrets, but I understand if you feel you need to. But do not ever," she states, poking his chest with a red nail, "never," another, more forceful poke, "lie to Penelope Garcia again."

Reid just winces, which makes she remember he's still bruised basically everywhere. Still, she can't step back now, not when she's making a point.

"Am I understood?" The nod is jerky, but she can tell it is heartfelt. "Good. Now let's go back to work before our Mighty Boss calls again."

* * *

"So, about Lila."

They've been trapped in the office's elevator for two hours, and given that is the middle of the night of a _Sunday_ , it is more likely that help is not going to be swift.

"What about Lila?"

"Oh, so you're willing to talk about her?" she basically squeals. Reid is usually very private about his personal life, especially that of his past, so he even acknowledging the thing between Lila Archer and Matt Gray feels somewhat like early Christmas.

"Would you leave me alone otherwise?" he grumbles from the corner where he's sat, long arms draped around equally long legs.

"Nope," she teases, because she wouldn't keep asking if he didn't want to touch the subject in the first place, and she knows he knows.

There's a moment of silence, and then he taps the space by his side, so she scoops closer.

"She was a model before being an actress, did you know?" No she didn't, so she shakes her head. "I met her in one of my first professional photoshoots. I was new to LA, she was new to modeling, and we just … connected."

"As in romantically connected?" Because that would be _lovely_.

"Ah, no. She was focused on starting her career, and I was trying to balance the modeling with the CIA training, so none of us really had the time. But we were there for each other, whenever we needed someone to talk." He smiles and Penelope smiles with him, because the fondness he feels is quite clear on his face.

She feels a tingle of expectation, as if she were replaying a favorite soap opera. "When did it change? When did you realize you cared about each other? Romantically, I mean."

"Never."

Wait, what? "But you dated!"

"Lila Archer dated Matt Gray, not me." It takes her a moment to realize what he's saying, and then another to realize what it really means.

"Wait, she _knew_?"

He makes a curious gesture, a mix between a smile and a pout that makes him look strangely like a frog. A cute one, but still.

"I told you, we met while I was still training. The fact that she is naturally a good actress and a good teacher too is the only reason I didn't pack, drop the whole being an agent thing and hid in academia."

"Oh, wow." She can't help but feel a bit of disappointment. After being told that Matt Gray was in fact an undercover agent, she had dig out everything available in the net about the man. His short relationship with the equally glamorous actress Lila Archer had been a particular bright spot. "So she wasn't your Bond girl?"

He chuckles good-naturedly, even if there's something sad and heartbreaking about the sound.

"We talked about that, actually. She never failed to insist it was extremely insulting. But there was no way I was going to risk more than a fleeting affair. She couldn't be particularly associated to Gray, because if anybody discovered who Gray really was …"

"She would have been a target." In the silence that follows, she wonders. "So that explains why there was nothing between you two, not truly. But it doesn't mean you didn't love her."

His voice is almost a whisper. "I didn't, not in the way you imply."

"Reid, you don't need to-"

"No, I mean … She was my best friend, Garcia, my sister if you wish. For the longest time she was the only one there for me, unconditionally, the only one that knew Spencer Reid."

And it clicks, in the way he speaks of Lila as if she's not anymore among the living, even if as far as Penelope is aware she's still alive.

"So she doesn't know?"

"That I didn't die in the same accident than Matt Gray? No. It would put her in danger."

"Bullshit."

"I'm being honest, Garcia."

"I know! I just think it is not fair."

He sighs and yes, she understands it is ridiculous to expect fairness when they see what they see in their job. But it is what she is, and there's nothing she can do to change that.

" _Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not_."

Despite what has been said she has to smile, because seriously?

"Did you just quote Oscar Wilde to me?"

"It is better than _Life is not fair, get used to it_."

"Huh. Doctor House?"

"Who? No. Bill Gates."

Just then the elevator lurches, the lights blinking back to their usual brightness.

"Come on," she says, getting up and trying to make the wrinkles on her skirt disappear. "You're coming home with me tonight."

"Somehow I don't think Lynch is going to be happy about it," he grumbles, even if he follows her when the doors open.

"Oh, he'll be, trust me. You're totally his type."

"His type." There's suspicion clear in his pretty face, and really, he's so easy.

Her smile is bright and blinding, she can see it in the horror in his face.

"Well, of course, cutie pie. There's nothing a threesome cannot fix."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Morgan's and is almost done. I'm working on Rossi's now, and I need your opinion. Should I make Rossi meet Reid before returning to the BAU? I'm not sure it will fit Rossi's behavior on the prequel (plus, I already made him meet Gideon, Hotch and Prentiss). And if you believe I should: in what capacity, as a model or a CIA agent? I have three different beginnings, and need to choose one ...


	4. Derek Morgan

He doesn't google Matt Gray with the intention to fuel his fantasies. Not at first, at any rate. So yes, he clicks on the _More images_ link, and yes, he has SafeSearch off. It still is not his fault that there's a booming market for famous people lookalikes in the porn industry, but maybe he shouldn't have spent that first night after they came back, the memories still too clear, looking at videos and pictures at far too disputable websites, and jerking off to them.

Okay, he definitely shouldn't have.

But it is not as if he expects to meet the kid again, at least not any time soon. Even if they both work in federal agencies, there's not enough overlap between a FBI behavioral analyst and a LA based CIA undercover agent's circles.

And thus, after that first night that leaves him feeling dirty and disgusting because he really doesn't believe the kid would say the things his lookalike lustfully drawls, he turns to real images of the guy. After all, he has a healthy imagination, and some of the pictures are good enough fodder for imagination.

There is one in particular where pain and pleasure are equally clear in the young man's face, and that never fails to make Morgan hard in two seconds sharp. And then there is a series from a photoshoot where nothing covers the kid but a bunched up white sheet and an equally naked beautiful woman that makes Morgan realize he has absolutely no interest in her.

After that, he forces himself to stop cold turkey. Yes, he is healthy, and he is a man, and sex has never been something he recoils from since, well, since taking back control of his life. But what he is doing is verging on the edge of obsession, and as an obsessional crimes expert, he knows best than anybody how dangerous that can be.

Still he keeps the news alert and reads everything that comes into his mail, but allows the guy to slide from his brain as soon as he closes the window. And even if now and then he still has some incredibly vivid wet dreams featuring a pretty man with long limbs and pouty lips, his sexual life is back to what is was before the Strada case.

And then Spencer Reid grins at him, and Morgan's world lurches.

* * *

"I knew you still had it in you, pretty boy," he says after a beat, chuckling when Reid rolls his eyes and turns back into his apartment, leaving Morgan to close the door.

It is almost funny how the sight of the guy in a ratty t-shirt and old jeans only makes him recognize that yes, he has a cute ass, when six months earlier he'd have been planning how to get into his pants. _Down, boy_ , he orders to his body when an inkling of desire stirs at his thoughts, and smiles fondly when the lust dispels.

 _It is easy because now I really know him_ , he tells himself, a conclusion he arrives at on the first week of the kid at the BAU. It is easy because the kid is now _Reid_ , a geeky young man that knows too much of everything and is still in awe of the simplest things, and not the beautifully fake supermodel posing for photographers.

"There's a leak in the shower and another under the kitchen sink," Reid says, repeating what he already said to Morgan at work the day before. They cross the small living room, and Morgan has to stop and look around, raising an eyebrow.

"You said you've been living here for two weeks," he says, incredulous. All doors are open, and the bareness of the small department is more obvious by the fact that all he can see on it, beside the walls and kitchen and bathroom fixes, is a shiny microwave oven.

"I have," Reid declares matter-of-factly, making Morgan roll his eyes. For someone who used to live with the level of luxury that accompanies his former career, Reid has a fondness for simplicity that verges almost on monastic life. "Most of my things are at the other department, but after Monday I'll have to rent a storing unit if I haven't moved everything."

Ah, okay, that makes more sense. Still … "And where exactly have you been sleeping?" he asks, entering the first room and looking around. Nothing.

"Inflatable bed," Reid explains as he follows Morgan into the second room. "But I had to put it away to avoid damage from the paint." True enough, there is a small mountain of paint cans and painting implements in the corner - although, in fact, the mountain is not so small.

"That's much more than you'll need for this room," he advises, turning around and looking at the state of the walls and the size of the room. God, and he thought Reid's old department was small.

"I know, I plan to paint it all."

Morgan stops what he is doing and looks back at his friend. "The entire apartment," he says, and Reid nods. "All of it in one day." And when the kid nods again, he has to poke the wiry bicep. "Sorry to bust your bubble, genius, but I don't think you have the stamina for it."

"Well, I know I do," Reid declares, glaring at him and crossing his arms.

Okay, maybe that was the wrong thing to say. "Look, kid, even for someone who exercises regularly like I do -"

" _I_ exercise regularly."

And that was too funny to let it pass. "I doubt lifting your coffee cup a hundred times a day counts as exercising, Reid."

"I practice Yoga three days a week, and Tai Chi two days a week, and -"

"I mean real exercise, Einstein."

Later, when he returns from his blackout to find a slightly worried Reid looming over him, he mentally kicks himself. The kid might look fragile, but he's still ex-CIA.

"What the hell did you do?" he asks, chest burning with every swallow of air gulped down.

"As I was going to tell you before being rudely interrupted," Reid says, still glaring although now without real fire behind it, "I have a pretty good understanding of anatomy. And you better stay down a bit longer, or you're going to pass out again."

"I didn't pass out," Morgan retorts, because dammit, he's never passed out in his life. Still, he follows Reid's advice, if only because the floor is pretty comfortable at the moment.

"I actually was planning to do it last week, a room a day," Reid eventually admits, sprawled on the living room's floor many hours later. Morgan is feeling as tired as the kid looks, pride the only thing keeping him sitting instead of horizontal. That, and the fact that lying down wouldn't allow him to appreciate the sight. Flushed, sweaty and boneless is a good look on Reid.

"Nice to know you aren't really that much into masochism," he responds, smiling at Reid's tired growl. Even after six months, the younger agent still isn't used to the unpredictability of the BAU's life; although, to be honest, last week had been their scheduled time down, but with the rest of the teams out and a high profile case right in DC, the two of them plus Prentiss had ended crashing at Quantico five nights in a row.

He realizes he really shouldn't have allowed himself to relax when the doorbell rings.

"Oh shoot me," Reid whimpers but valiantly gets up. Technically Morgan can do it, he can get to the door and pay for the pizza, but the kid had insisted, back when they agreed on what would be appropriate payment for him helping paint the apartment. Plus, regular exercise or not, Morgan's muscles aren't used to the type of work he's been asking from them for the last hours.

Still he gets up, grunting like an old man, and catches the kid at the kitchen, looking at the food and obviously debating whether he is more tired than hungry.

"This isn't going to work," he says, knowing that Reid understands what he means. The kid hasn't complained, but Morgan can notice that the fumes have been bothering him, and he can see the red blotches that the drying paint produce on the pale skin. To be honest, he's not feeling top notch himself, but he at least knows that a warm shower and a soft bed are waiting for him at home. Reid? Not so much.

Unless …

He closes the box and puts it on the kid's hands, herding him out of the apartment and then into his truck without protest. The truck is old and the upholstery is easy to clean vinyl, so he's not worried about paint damage, which is a good thing, because he's too damn tired to worry about anything more than taking them home while avoiding causing a traffic accident.

* * *

"I'm not sleepy anymore," Morgan says to the police officer, because he _isn't_.

"It's the adrenaline. There's a chance that you'll crash later once your body absorbs it."

 _You're not helping_ , he wants to growl to Reid, but given that they are not alone, he only glares and tries to silently convey the message.

"Usually we'd offer to drive you home, but we've just been called…" the officer trails down, looking at his partner, who is still attached to the patrol's radio. "Is there a friend we can call to pick you up?"

"I won't leave my truck here."

The officer looks at him, and Morgan can see he's losing his patience, but seriously. The truck is the first vehicle he ever bought, it made the trip from Chicago with him, it is the only way he has to take Clooney anywhere. He's not taking the chance for it to be vandalized, or stolen, or-

"Hey, it's me. Look, we're about ten minutes from your place," Reid says on his cell phone, having dialed someone without Morgan noticing. Oh god, what if he called Hotch? Or worse, Rossi? "Morgan and I. Oh, and there's a nice police officer here too, and we agree that we shouldn't be driving." Except none of the two lives less than an hour from the area where they are right now … "No, not drunk, it is a long story. Yes, that would be helpful, thank you. Morgan's truck. Where? Well, the nice police officer wants to talk to you, maybe you can ask him?" And then Reid says to the officer, handing him the phone, "Kevin Lynch, technical analyst for the FBI."

It doesn't take long after all. The officer (who, for the record, is only nice to Reid and keeps glaring at Morgan) talks to Lynch for a moment, and apparently convinced about Lynch's capacity to handle Reid and Morgan, says his goodbyes (and threatens to jail Morgan one more time, if he dares drive while tired again) before jumping into the patrol and leaving.

"How is it you know where Lynch lives?" he asks casually after they are back in the truck's cabin, eating the now cold pizza while waiting.

"How is it you don't? With how close you and Garcia are, I'd expect for you to have Kevin's dossier memorized."

 _Kevin_ , Morgan's mind stresses. Reid is extremely formal most of the time, which is why it surprised the team to hear him call Hotch _Aaron_ when he first landed himself in a hospital. But they have known each other and worked with each other for a longer time, so it not so unusual. Kevin Lynch, on the other hand …

He looks out of the window, trying to will himself into some semblance of calmness. He has no reason to be jealous. Hell, he has no _right_ to be jealous. Just because Reid hasn't called him Derek yet, it doesn't mean they are no friends.

It doesn't mean anything, really.


	5. Jennifer "JJ" Jareau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a 1.3 K word document with other three different versions of JJ's chapter, and two other scenes in my head that I couldn't fit here. But you've waited long enough (sorry!), so I'll keep them in the burner in the hopes that I can fit them in a future fic, were I to write it.

They are on the way to their third interview of the day when Reid breaks the silence, his eyes roaming at a faster pace over the map.

"That's interesting," he says.

"What's it?"

"This map and the one we had at the station. Some roads' names are different."

"It's not unusual in the countryside." And of course it is not, but that's something Reid already knows, so JJ hopes that him voicing this observation means he's made a break in their case.

He has.

"Tell Hotch," he tells Garcia after she has confirmed his hunch, and closes his phone with finality. They shouldn't be going into a suspected location without backup, but given the long distances and the fact that the missing children are to be killed in the next hour or so if the UNSUBs keep to their schedule, they have no choice.

By the time she parks, far enough from the farm to keep their approach a secret, he's already in the FBI vest, hand resting on his revolver, eyes darting quickly around. They have no signal, they've already checked, but at least their whereabouts are known. After a moment to go over the relevant parts of the profile they share a sharp nod and leave the car, Reid in the lead. In paper she's the senior agent, his past in the CIA hidden under "data analyst" for safety reasons, but in the field it can't be contested who is the most experienced.

"Wait," he whispers urgently, pulling her behind a crumbling stack of crates and debris. A child's whimpers carry to their location, pain and fear clear in the broken sound, and Reid's hand on her shoulder is the only thing stopping her from bolting into the house.

_Wait for what_ , she's about to ask when the back door opens and a man walks outside. His full attention is on lighting up his cigarette, making Reid's careful approach easier. He falls in a heap of boneless limbs, barely a sound coming from his lips. Reid has already handcuffed him out of the way when JJ reaches them, and she raises an eyebrow when he ties a handkerchief over the unconscious man's mouth.

They enter the house following protocol, clearing the kitchen and the living room according to book. It goes all to hell when they reach the stairs, JJ's phone beeping loudly three times to signal the same number of incoming messages. There's no way the remaining UNSUB didn't hear the sound, the place being as silent as it is. They share a worried glance when a blood-freezing scream reaches them, then run upstairs, knowing full well that the situation has turned even more dangerous.

The two girls are bloodied and filthy and utterly scared, particularly the one whose neck the UNSUB's knife is pressing against. The man's eyes clearly show that their profile was spot on in regards to his mental health; the tremors that quake his body confirm that, as suspected, at least one of the UNSUBs has a substance abuse problem.

"Drop your weapons," he orders, and after just a bit of hesitation they do so. Then he has them kicking the guns in their direction. It is not until he orders Reid to handcuff JJ to the bed's frame that she sees her partner's calm demeanor breaks, if only slightly. The UNSUB notices, too, and he cracks a demented chuckle. "Don't worry, I'm not interested in her," he says, motioning Reid to move to the center of the room and pushing the girls in JJ's direction. "When given the choice, I prefer boys."

The way he pronounces the last word, predatorily looking at Reid, makes JJ's stomach churn. But Reid's reaction couldn't be more different to hers, his eyes freezing and his face clean of anything but cool disdain.

She yells when the UNSUB, infuriated, attacks. He has the knife on his right hand and the gun on the left but uses none, instead opting to kick Reid in the knee, hard. _They get off by causing pain_ , Morgan's words sound clear in her mind, and she knows they have this other part of the profile right by the look in the man's eyes when he approaches a whimpering Reid.

Later she'll describe the scene to Emily and Penelope as something out of the latest Sherlock Holmes' movie, not because Reid reminds her of Robert Downey Jr., but due to how every single move seems to be carefully choreographed and planned beforehand. The UNSUB, and JJ as well, is barely processing the reverse roundhouse kick when the gun's handle meets his temple and he falls down.

The gun is the one that had been on the man's possession just a second ago, but as Henry happens to have a deep and recently discovered love for magic and Reid happens to be a sucker for Henry, JJ is somewhat used to his sleight of hand. What surprises her, though, is that he keeps knocking people off. This excessive use of violence is nothing like the man she knows.

"A baton," she blurts out, straining to reach the girls, and waiting for Reid to look questioning at her before continuing. He finally does, and she has to admit that the pain is almost completely hidden, although the fact that she can see any of it tells her how much he's likely hurting. "We should give you a baton instead of a gun," she explains, wincing when the girls latch at her and she has to twist her still cuffed arm. "Shh, it's okay, you'll be fine," she tells them.

She keeps soothing the girls, talking quietly and telling them they are going home soon, while Reid frees her wrist, secures the UNSUB and makes the call. He maintains his distance from the three of them, because law officer or not, these kids are going to need a lot of time before a strange man can approach them without causing a panic attack.

* * *

"Cigarette butts."

Reid is just out of surgery, but he immediately gets what she's referring to, if the little, tired smile is something to go by.

Morgan, on the other hand, delivers a puzzled "What?" while he holds the straw for Reid to drink.

"It rained, about two hours before we reached the farm," JJ explains, her eyes fixed on Reid. "There were a lot of cigarette butts besides the back door, most of them completely drenched, but the amount of them only partly wet was still high, which meant that somebody in the house was a chain smoker. And none of the victims smelled particularly of second-hand smoke, which meant that the house was a smoke-free zone. And none of the butts was completely dry, so we probably only had to wait a little and he'd show up."

"As it happened," Morgan adds. "And then pretty boy here kicked his ass."

"Technically-" Reid rasps out, voice rough and eyes drooping.

JJ doesn't allow him to continue.

"Technically, you need to rest, get well, get your strength back. Then we'll talk about how much ass you kick, technically as well asfiguratively."

He rolls his eyes, but it doesn't take long before he goes back to sleep. She goes home after that, leaving Morgan to keep guard. It is not until Henry asks about the bandage in her wrist that she remembers she didn't leave the house completely unscratched. But then, given that by the time the others arrived Reid had been pale, sweating and completely unable to put any weigh on his hurt knee, she can't be blamed for forgetting.

It had been something of a surprise when the surgeon told them that Reid had had reconstructive surgery in the same knee a little more than a year before. According to the man, it was going to make Reid's recovery more difficult, especially due to his allergy to opiates.

Well, JJ though, Reid had done it before, and he had recovered well enough that nobody realized his knee hadn't always been in optimal shape. She was sure nothing would stop him from doing it again.

* * *

"Is there nothing you can do?" JJ asks Reid when he arrives. He looks past her shoulder, where she knows Will is standing, and she waits while they have whatever silent conversation it is they are having.

"Let's have a walk," he says, and they do, crutches and all.

She's angry. At Strauss and the higher ups, the ones that want her and the ones that are using her as a chip to advance in their careers; but mostly, she's angry at herself. She should have foreseen this, should have gone to Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss, Reid, anybody with contacts. Well, maybe not Prentiss, given her hate for politics. But the rest of them, she knows they know people, and would have been willing to do something, had she told them what was going on.

Now, unfortunately, is too late. Hotch's career has already been on the stake for too long, and she can't ask Rossi to go against her new bosses. Even with how famous he is, the Department of Defense's headquarters are out of his sphere of influence. But Reid, Reid has worked directly with the Pentagon, and for DARPA, the CIA, DEA, NSA, INR, NRO, Homeland Security, as well as more intelligence and counterintelligence agencies she cares to remember.

"You can do something, can't you?" she asks again, even if Reid's continued silence tells her the answer is _no_.

"Do you really want me to?" He continues before she can answer, "Do you really want to know that you have your work not because you deserve it, but because somebody else got it for you?"

"I deserve it!"

He nods, and her anger deflates a bit at the sadness in his face. "Yes, you do, and what's happening to you it's not fair. But that doesn't change the fact that you'll feel like you owe it to me, if I interfere."

That is, unfortunately, true. They keep walking, each lost in their thoughts, until he speaks up again. "This might not be so bad for you. Personally, I've found change is good for personal growth."

She stops, surprised at his words and yes, more than a bit hurt.

"I get that we've barely known each other," JJ says when he stops too and maneuvers to turn around and face her, "and that our friendship is not as strong as the one I have with the rest of the team, but I thought you _cared_."

His face closes as soon as her words are out, and he looks away. She can tell that underneath he's angry, even if the most she's seen him show is slight annoyance. She expects for him to walk away, compose himself, but instead he squares his shoulders and faces her again. His eyes are fuming, and she has to stop the urge to take a step back, because somehow she can say that, while he's mad, it is not at her.

"It kills me when you call me _Spence_."

She chokes a laugh. "What?" Where the hell did that come from?

"There was somebody in my life, somebody I was very close to," his face softens while he explains. "My sister by choice, if you wish. She used to call me Spence."

And just like that, she realizes. She doesn't know about his early years, but other than the last months, Reid has spent all of his adult life as an undercover agent. Most of the people he shared his day-to-day didn't met the real him, and those that did he had to leave behind.

"Every time you call me that, it feels like I'm betraying her," he keeps saying, looking away again. "And I hate myself, because it wouldn't matter if I didn't care about you, if it were only a name. But I … I do care, JJ. I have something of an abandonment issue, and I know that you didn't choose to leave, but I can't help feeling like it is me you're leaving." He is obviously struggling to keep his emotions in check, and that makes her want to cry, because after Hotch, Reid is the most emotionally guarded person she has ever met.

"Then you're an idiot." He doesn't take her words the wrong way, maybe because she's giving him the strongest hug his injured knee and their height difference allow. They stay like that for a moment, until she feels him beginning to twitch. "So, a chance to grow," she says, trying to avoid further embarrassment.

"And to win your place back at the BAU, if you choose to." He's wearing a mischievous grin, so she has to grin back. Whatever plans he has, whether they work or not, she knows she'll keep in touch with this man, his family now.


	6. David "Dave" Rossi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent the last weeks writing way too many oficial/professional documents in Spanish, which has lead to my fanfiction writing in English being a bit rusty. My apologies, please tell me if the style is confusing! Also, I had lots of ideas for Rossi's chapter, but ended cutting them aside to be somewhat consistent in the chapters' lenght. This is to everybody who made suggestions as to how Rossi could have met undercover!model!Reid, I'm sorry I couldn't include them all.

The manila envelope lands on top of the stack of files and forms already cluttering his desk. He huffs at JJ but dares not complain, because under the efficient looking mask she wears, he knows she's as tired as he feels. Even if they are not going to the field for the next week there're still lots of desk job for them, and three days with little sleep and hours spent at the hospital do not make it easier.

Next time, he swears, the first thing he'll do after confirming that Aaron is alive, is call Strauss to threaten her and make completely clear that under no circumstance is he to be named Acting Agent In Charge.

"What is this?" he asks, picking up the envelope. Other than Aaron's name, there's nothing written on it.

"There's this agent at the CIA, he's not certified but they sent him to a couple seminars and now he handles the criminal profiling in their easiest cases. Hotch looks over his final reports, professional courtesy, and gives them his OK."

Great, because what he needs is more work. Still, he repeats his silent mantra, _not JJ's fault, not JJ's fault_ and manages to thank her with a smile. They both know it is bullshit, but oh well.

By the end of the day the pile is down to one third of its initial size. It is an hour after his usual leaving time, and he has no desire to keep pouring over paperwork, so he only takes the envelope home. Some light reading is going to be a welcome break after hours of filling mind numbing governmental formats and going over familiar cases for the hundredth time.

He is in no rush to look at it, thought. One of the reasons he retired relatively unharmed instead of burning out like Gideon, or punishing himself on a daily basis like Katie, is his reluctance to tarnish his private space with horrors. Sometimes he had to, back in the earlier days of the BAU, and sometimes he still has to. But making sure it is an exception and not the rule has helped him, and he has all the intention to keep it so.

So he stops at Aaron's hospital for a two hour long visit before being kicked out, and takes Munchie for a short walk after dinner. But in the end, it turns out he doesn't have to worry about his mind dwelling on the bloody details. The case, which he reviews in his studio, with a glass of good brandy in his hand, is not the simple light thing that JJ's words made him believe. The accompanying photos showcase the work of a sadistic nutcase with too much time alone with his victims, but David barely glances at them before moving to explore the rest of the documents.

There are two other leafs of paper besides the file itself. The second one, he realizes with interest, is a well written recollection of the events surrounding the case. It reads as a fictional story, but to his trained eye the details that mark it as real or at least realistic are easy to spot, and it is missing the hair-pulling inaccurate bits that police novels and crime TV series love to dwell in. It is told chronologically, and he finds himself putting clues together and slowly but steadily creating his own profile.

Two hours later he's still sitting at his couch, both the file and the second document spread over his lap. Taken as a whole they give him a more complete picture, as there are elements missing in one or another, but not both. As a writer himself, as well as a governmental worker, he can understand the reasons: there's a limit to how much detail can be used before losing the reader, and there are things that you just don't put on an official document.

To be honest, he's a little bit jealous. He's both methodical and a damn good profiler, but he can't help wondering whether he would have noticed certain patterns on the victimology and the locations had this been one of his solo cases. The geographic profile, in particular, is the most complete he has ever seen. Nowadays the BAU works with Garcia's programs, which are an extraordinary advance compared to the unit's earlier days, but even them pale in comparison to the painstakingly detailed map in his hands.

And then there's the writing style. He, David Rossi, is the better writer, there's no doubt. There are several paragraphs he would rewrite, add a bit of background information, change the order of. But the potential is there, both in the author and in the story being told, and only the fact that he has to show up at the office in less than five hours stops him from powering his computer on and opening the document processor.

It is only when he's finally convinced himself to go to bed when he gives a second look to the remaining manuscript. The structure is clearly that of an academic article, which is why he'd put it aside after the first glance. One of the reasons he had abandoned an FBI career for the writing stint was his desire to share the knowledge they had accumulated, paired with his utter dread for academic papers. He couldn't write one, even if his life depended on it, and thus all written scholarly contributions from the BAU came from Gideon. It didn't seem to bother the other agents, being not academically inclined either, but to Dave it was a source of discomfort.

He had been particularly delighted when a Dr. Dana Williamson made a name for himself on the field of criminal psychology, eventually specializing in profiling. There were other researchers working on the same theme, but Gideon had always been the uncontested lead … until Dr. Williamson started branching out into pattern analysis, bringing new understanding to their shared study subject and linking the more hard sciences to their psychological basis. Dave would have loved to see Williamson and Gideon butt heads, knowing just too well how vicious scholars could turn, but unfortunately Gideon had disappeared before such encounter happened.

It is his familiarity with the man's work what makes Dave pause the second time his eyes scan the document's front page. It is a working paper rather than a publishable article, but the phrasing is so unique that all thoughts of sleeping flee Dave's mind. He has a copy of every article ever written under Dr. Dana Williamson's name, here in his personal library, within reach, for reference. And even though it is quite extensive, he can already say the paper in his hands is not among this collection.

Yet.

It always takes him two or three passes before he fully understands all the implications in Dr. Williamson's work, but even if he's skimming over the words he can already say where it fits among the man's research's main structure. He'd clearly delineated it on an early date, and Dave, along with the rest of those in the field interested in its academic advance, has been slowly watching it take form.

The document in his hands is clearly the next one in the series.

* * *

"Should I leave these here?" JJ asks suddenly, making him jump. It is not like he's breaking into Aaron's office, he's been given permission to use it and what's in it until the Unit Chief recovers from Foyet's attack. But until today Dave had avoided doing so, instead asking JJ to locate the relevant documents for him.

"Ah yes please. There are some reference records here I'm going to need, so I'll probably spend most of the day, or probably the rest of the week …" he trails off, knowing full well the unsolicited explanation is making his behavior more suspicious. Indeed, she looks at him curiously while setting a new bunch of files to review and formats to fill on the desk.

"I'll pick yesterday's from your office," she offers, and he's thankful that he had the foresight to finish the last ones after arriving way too early to work, instead of diving into Aaron's personal archive as he'd itched to.

He plunges into the pile with extra attention, careful to give each file the focus it deserves. The stack is not big yet, but he knows that as the day progresses it is only going to grow, and the fastest he gets them out of the way, the soonest he'll be able to continue losing himself in the treasure hidden in Aaron's lowest cabinet.

By five thirty he's not only broken his own record on productivity, he's also managed to bring the unit up to date a day before the original estimates, something JJ delights in telling him.

"Just don't tell the Dragon Lady," he responds, and JJ chuckles. Everybody has left or is preparing to leave, and he can tell she's looking forward to a less hectic day tomorrow, and then the well deserved free weekend after that.

"Oh, about your review of the CIA file," she says while gathering the documents, "there should be a stock format in Hotch's email; you just have to change the date."

He looks at the turned off computer as she leaves, wondering whether it'd matter much if he waits until tomorrow. On one hand he can't be readier to leave, two thick folders full of what he's almost sure is Dr. Williamson's early, unpublished works, already set aside. On the other hand …

It hits him, as the computer's screen comes to life, that Aaron has been in contact with Dana Williamson for months, maybe even for years, and never mentioned it to Dave. He knows about Dave's admiration for the man, goddammit, even joked about him putting everything on hold whenever Williamson published a new article.

Despite the hurt and anger, he's still unprepared to see the second item in the inbox. It lacks a subject line, but the mail program identifies it as coming from a _will.iamson_. The email address, strangely enough, is a collection of numbers that ends with @jstor.org, and the time dates it as having arrived shortly after noon. The text, he discovers when his hand clicks on the mouse without his conscious thought, is short and vague.

_I heard you're busy. Don't worry about the documents, it can wait._

He's wondering what his next step should be when what he recognizes as an instant messaging window pops up. The program is unfamiliar to him, none of the commercial ones he's seen, or even the FBI one nobody really uses.

 _Who are you and what are you doing at Agent Hotchner's computer?_ , the text reads, and he takes a second to silently thank for the proper grammar and punctuation before replying.

_? ? ?_

It is not the best he can do, but given the circumstances, he thinks it conveys his confusion quite well. 'Who the hell are you', 'what the hell are you talking about', and 'how the hell do you know who I'm not' are prime examples of the questions packed in those three signs.

_You opened an email sent to his official address. I know he's not at the office at the moment._

He allows surprise to take over for a second before realization hits him. Could it be that he's talking to whom he believes he's talking to?

 _I'm David Rossi_ , he writes, hits enter and then adds immediately, _I'm covering for Agent Hotchner at the moment._

He waits but no reply follows, and he's left wondering whether he said the wrong thing. Then he notices a light blinking, the camera's. Funny, he hadn't realized-

It turns off. What the hell. Just then a new line of text appears.

 _Sorry for that, I had to be sure_. Rossi frowns, but has no time to complain before more text follows. _I don't know what would be the right way to do this, especially given the circumstances, so I'm just going to … jump into it, so to speak. Agent Rossi, I'm a great admirer of yours._

Dave shakes his head, a smile slowly turning into a full blown grin.

_Can I assume I'm talking to Dr. Williamson?_

The answer is immediate.

_Oh, yes, yes, excuse my modals. Dr. Dana Williamson, at your service. You can call me Dana._

_Well, Dana, thank you,_ he writes, chuckling to himself, _you can call me Dave. And as we're putting the cards on the table, I have to admit myself on being a great admirer of yours, as well._

Oh, but he's going to have so much fun.

* * *

_Did you get the document?_

He sips his wine, guiltily looking at the unopened package in the corner of his home desk. He's too tired to read it, too tired in fact to be doing anything other than sleeping, but there's something he needs to cover before saying goodnight.

_Earlier today. I must warn you, it is chocked full on red marks. Lots of mistakes, it seems like a chimpanzee wrote it._

He smiles at how easy it is for him to trade barbs with the other man. Dread slowly gathers at his gut as he thinks of what he's planning to do.

_You realize it is my comments on your most recent chapter, right? My paper's draft should reach you next Friday._

Dave spits the wine he was in the middle of drinking, coughs and chuckles at the same time. Oh that little shit. He shakes his head, feels the smile disappear and the merriment slowly drain from him. He has to, it is now or never.

 _I need to ask you something_ , he writes, considers for a moment and then adds, _If you have no idea what I'm talking about, please ignore it._ He forces himself to push enter, and waits.

 _Ok_.

He's been wondering how to breach the subject, from direct questioning to subtle interrogation. His final choice is something that won't compromise others if he's been reading things wrong, and that will hopefully help deal with the ugly aspects of what he's about to do, if he's right. Hopefully.

_Pretty Boy?_

He waits, and waits, and waits. It feels like an eternity, but finally something happens. It is not a text, but the light of his computer's built in camera turning on, and a secondary window on his screen flicking to life.

 _"In my defense, I was young and naïve,"_ the CIA agent they met in LA two months ago says, a smile both small and nervous in his face. _"And I honestly thought you'd figure it out earlier, if at all."_

"Yes, well," Dave says, grinning, "You can't blame me for taking a while to get over the fact that the guy I've been talking to is fourteen and not eighty, like I believed."

 _"Late twenties,"_ the young man says, rolling his eyes. _"And does my age really matter?"_

Dave smiles softens. He hadn't immediately realized that the man, the _kid_ , that Jason Gideon had once trained fit into what he knew for sure about Dana Williamson - namely, that he worked for the CIA, had a deep knowledge of criminal profiling, and was something of a friend of Aaron. But when it finally clicked, he had been more hurt by the fact that the friend he had spent hours talking to didn't really exist.

Except he did, kind of. There were things that couldn't be faked, and Dana's … Gray's … whatever his name was, his analytical mind, the way he grasped concepts and helped Dave bounce ideas could not be other than real. So yes, there were trust issues they were going to have to work through, but Dana … Gray … hadn't recoiled and hid as Dave had feared.

And really, the age thing was but tangential.

"No, it doesn't matter," he admits, watches the smile in the other man's face get increasingly brighter. "Not a single bit."

* * *


	7. Jason Gideon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long notes, but there are a few things you need to know to fully understand this chapter. Dr. Olga Todd was inspired in Dr. John Todd and his wife, Dr. Olga Taussky, both mathematicians. He helped shape the computer science field at Caltech, she aided in the development of matrix theory, which is relevant to probability theory, which is in itself relevant to criminal profiling. The behavioral and social neuroscience program does exist, and sounds like something young!Reid might be interested in.
> 
> ECRI stands for Environmental Criminology Research Inc. Based in Canada, it develops and supplies software for advanced crime analysis. It was founded by Dr. Kim Rossmo, pioneer in geographic profiling, whose studies were based in Paul and Patricia Brantingham's work, developers of the field of environmental criminology and its use on crime prevention. _Rigel_ is the first and leading geographic profiling system, developed by ECRI and based in Rossmo's work. It was first released in 1997 and adopted by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF) in 2000. The ATF later started offering geographic profiling services in the federal level in 2004.
> 
> Penelope St. John is based in Penelope St. John-Orsini, a fictional spy from The Baroness' series. Twice married, twice widowed and a former Elle and Vogue model, she runs a model agency as a cover for her espionage missions. Apparently she has sex many times in each one of her novels, and spends a lot of time naked. Sully Flick is a villain of hers, a _smut master_.
> 
> CIS stands for Counter-Intelligence Staff, part of the CIA's Directorate of Operations (DO). The DO operates until 2005, when it becomes the National Clandestine Service, one of the actual four sections of the CIA. Special Operations is also part of the DO, in charge of covert work. The USSOCOM is the national command in charge of overseeing the Special Operations areas in the Armed Forces. The CNC is the Crimes and Narcotics Center, part of the CIA's Directorate of Intelligence (DI). They are less hands-on than the DO, and operate also in the United States while the DO is mostly overseas. Part of their work nowadays relates to geographic analysis.
> 
> Finally, the Palermo Convention is a United Nations-sponsored multilateral treaty against transnational organized crime adopted in 2000. There are three parts of the pact, the one that interests Reid being the _Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, especially Women and Children_. As a character mentions in **Life as a Pretty Boy** , undercover!model!Reid's work for the CIA mostly relates to human trafficking.

{1998}

He is not expecting the call but he remembers the name, Dr. Olga Todd from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She's one of the mathematicians the Bureau asked to analyze whether _Rigel_ worked and if it could be trusted to turn geographic profiling into an objective and reliable tool for on-the-road criminal profiling. Unfortunately their conclusions had been that, while a significant advance in the field, the breakthrough they had been looking for was still far away.

"Dr. Todd, how can I help you?"

_"Well, Agent Gideon, it seems I'm the one who's going to help you. I've found your answer."_

"My answer." _To what question_ , he doesn't ask, sure she will explain.

_"Yes, see, I lent the program to one of our PhD candidates, as well as the test cases the FBI put together. He took a look at the CGT, tweaked it and manually ran the algorithm. He then suggested likely locations for each case, which I compared to the output datasheet. He consistently got better results than Rigel, Agent Gideon, with an increase in the success rate between one point two and five point eight percent."_

That is a good thing, of course. Still, he doesn't understand how this theoretical issue concerns the Federal government. It is not like they'll change their mind about acquiring a program that's still not trustworthy enough to use in their daily work.

"Are his suggested changes sound? Did you check them?"

Dr. Todd's laugh is an incredulous, merry sound.

_"I did something better, I sent them to ECRI and Rossmo himself called back. Some points were already being considered for the next version, but there's at least one fine-tuning nobody had put forth yet. And soon-to-be Dr. Reid's observations have helped convince Dr. Rossmo's team that they need to strengthen the psychological aspects."_

That is definitely interesting.

"I thought this Dr. Reid was a mathematician like you."

_"Future Doctor, Agent Gideon, he won't defend his thesis until early next year. And yes, his PhD studies are in mathematics. But he also whet his appetite in some basic psychology before attacking the problem, and now he's been eyeing the behavioral and social neuroscience program with far too much interest. The rest of the Department is giving me the evil eye, but well, you can't harness a mind like his. Give him a semester or two and I'm sure he'll be fundamental to the field's progress."_

Gideon feels his eyebrows rise. Their efforts had been mostly focused on mathematicians; criminalists too, but mostly pure, applied, specialized math researchers. Could it be that this is why they've been staggering while Canada leads? That all they need is to look at a mix of natural, social and hard sciences?

"Could you arrange a meeting with this colleague of yours, Dr. Todd? I can be in Cambridge tomorrow morning."

_"Of course, I'll see to it, he's going to be delighted. And oh, I didn't tell you? I'm not at the MIT anymore, Agent Gideon. It is Caltech now, which curiously means I'm still a beaver. But I won't distract you any longer. I guess we'll see you in Pasadena tomorrow, right?"_

* * *

{1998}

"I only need him for his face," she insists. "He just has to be silent, be pretty, and nothing more."

Gideon smiles at her words. Spencer, his face that of a deer caught in the headlights, is blushing a furious red.

"He's only sixteen."

"That didn't stop you from bringing him into the CIA. Come _on_. I need new 'models' for my agency," she says, drawing air quotes, "and every baby agent in the current litter is either ugly or stupid. Unlike your boy."

Spencer makes a small, strangled noise from his place behind the computer monitor. He's supposed to be working, but given how small his office is, there's no way he could avoid listening to their conversation.

Gideon sighs.

"I seriously doubt anybody good enough to go through the CIA recruiting and training process can be labeled as stupid."

St. John rolls her eyes and throws hers arms in the air.

"Okay, I'll admit it. None is the kind of pretty your boy is. Can I have him now?"

Gideon looks at her, wearing his benevolent uncle face.

"And what _kind of pretty_ is Spencer, exactly?"

Spencer is now directly looking at them, panic clear in his face. Gideon's attention, though, is completely on Penelope St. John. They rarely cross paths, but any time they do she's only regarded him with bored curiosity, and personally he finds her a bit predictable despite her fickle ways. Nonetheless, she's the kind of agent whose area of expertise could be useful to Spencer, and Gideon fully expects to take the chance offered.

She doesn't have to know right away, though.

"The kind of pretty Sully Flick would be interested in." She smiles wickedly, winking at Spencer and making the boy flush even redder. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he understands he may look, but not touch."

Gideon keeps silent as if in consideration. He's already made his decision, but he goes over it again, if only to make St. John twitch. From the beginning, his plan has been to bring Spencer into the BAU. It still is, despite the necessary detour into the CIA. Now that he knew how bright the boy's mind was, he couldn't let it unattended for years just because of his age. And, even if the Agency is as adamant against formally hiring an underage Spencer as the Bureau was, at least they are willing to train him until the day comes.

It happens to be a good thing, because despite being a genius there are many aspects of Spencer's that need to be groomed, and not all of them fall under Gideon's area of expertise. Furthermore, as his own work often keeps him away, he's thankful for the well rounded training the CIA is giving Spencer. But then again, there are things the standard instruction doesn't include, and strong interpersonal skills are something that is expected from the trainees, not something that is taught.

And they just happen to be something Penelope St. John excels at, her talent to read people and make them open up to her a kind of profiling that, were Spencer to learn, would give him new insight and help him become a BAU legend, as he's meant to be.

"I have one condition," he finally says, knowing full well she won't deny him.

* * *

{1999}

"I don't think he's prepared for this."

"He's a fast learner."

"It shouldn't matter. It was agreed that we would wait until he was at least eighteen before involving him into anything we wouldn't want any other children involved. Sending him to a mission, this mission specially, is completely against what any morally responsible person should stand for."

Gideon agrees with Penelope St. John: Spencer _is_ a fast learner. He doesn't only memorize texts; he understands them, new concepts clicking in his brain in a way that often leaves his instructors staggering to follow.

However, he also is of a mind with Counsel Elizabeth Parker. St. John's operation, the one where Spencer insinuated himself into without even trying, the one where he was unexpectedly put in a position to gather more information than St. John had managed to in six months, or ever dreamed to collect, is definitely unsavory.

Still …

"What is your opinion on the matter, Dr. Gideon?"

He looks at the Associate Deputy Director, thinking how best to say what he has to.

"We've already discussed the subject many times, sir," he starts, knowing full well that in none of those previous occasions did he give a direct answer to the man. "All I have to add is that, however young of age Spencer Reid is, he hasn't been a child for many years now."

And that, he knows, will seal Spencer's fate. It will later fall on him to pull the boy from the CIA clutches and back in the BAU, where he truthfully belongs. But meanwhile he has to think of Spencer's future career first, and however unforeseen this path, it is the one that has to be followed.

Spencer can only be made stronger by the experience.

* * *

{2000}

"I have decided to continue."

"You don't have to, Spencer. The FBI-"

"Won't even look at me until I'm twenty-one, or older. The CIA has already offered me a place as a CIS in the Directorate of Operations as soon as I turn eighteen."

And that is exactly what Gideon fears, knowing as he does that Counterintelligence has by now agreed to share him with Special Operations and the USSOCOM. Thankfully he still has a card up his sleeve. He just has to play it wisely.

"The ATF is in talks with ECRI. They are finally bringing _Rigel_ into the federal system." Spencer's eyes go round, just as he'd expected. He's been in contact not only with Kim Rossmo but also with Paul and Patricia Brantingham, and is forever interested in the slow but sure embracing of geographic profiling by law enforcement.

"It is still going to take a while until it is fully adopted," Spencer says, and although Gideon can see the spark of interest that lights his eyes, there are also doubts. "Have you heard about the Palermo Protocols?"

And yes, Gideon has, and he also knows that, after his brush with human trafficking, Spencer is now deeply interested in working against it.

"I'm not telling you to abandon what you've been doing this last year," he says. "I'm just suggesting that you should call Dr. Rossmo, tell him you're interested in working with the ATF on a part-time basis, I'm sure both the ATF and the CIA will agree readily. Ask the CIA to rank you as a Specialized Skills Officer instead of an Operations Officer, ask to be assigned to the CNC. And whatever you do, don't let them send you overseas unless it is temporally. Someone like you is difficult to forget, and if you disappear now, if you follow this path, you'll have to say forever goodbye to your former life."

He can see that Spencer has already thought of it, or part of it, but still it is obvious that his words shock him. Even if unmentioned, he can feel Diana Reid's presence among them, and Spencer's immense guilt about her worsened condition. And moreover, Gideon knows about William Reid and how Spencer feels about the man. There is no way he is going to abandon his mother, Gideon now knows, even if until a moment ago he wasn't sure.

"I was thinking about starting that second PhD in Chemistry," Spencer finally says, his voice small but resolute. "I'd have to be assigned to California, work something with Caltech about covering most of the credits long distance, try to recover as many contacts of St. John's as possible … but I think it can work."

"And the ATF?"

There is something in Spencer's eyes when he looks up at him, something way too old for a seventeen year old, even an emancipated genius that has been looking after himself and his sick mother for years.

"I'll call Dr. Rossmo in the morning."

And Gideon nods, because there's nothing more he can say.

* * *

{2007}

Gideon can't tear his eyes from the screen where Spencer is convulsing. He's done this, he's the only one at fault. Not only did he knowingly put a child, however bright, in this cursed path, he also paid no attention when Spencer came to him with misgivings about Charles Hankel. He had dismissed Spencer's warnings, truly believing there was nothing he could have seen in the man that Gideon didn't.

And now the former agent is holding Spencer hostage along with his own son, and Spencer …

_is convulsing convulsing convulsing and somebody says he's going to choke in his vomit and Gideon knows it is true why does nobody help him and he can see it happen he can't breathe he_

And Spencer is dead.

He can't do this, not after Sara, not after Jane, not after Flagstaff.

"Dr. Gideon?" an agent asks when he leaves the room, but doesn't follow. Not that he would be able to change his mind.

He already knew he wasn't going to return to the BAU when he didn't answer JJ's text about a case in Milwaukee. The team is down three members, Hotch suspended because of Gideon's mistake, Prentiss having handed her resignation according to Garcia's voice message. He had left because there he was more a liability than an asset, and because Spencer needed him more.

It had been so clear in his mind. He was going to save Spencer, get him back in good health, order him to quit the CIA. The BAU was going to need a new profiler and Spencer was the only one good enough to take his place. Better than him, infinitely better, even when he wasn't broken.

But now Spencer is dead.

He can't do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was the story's last chapter. I feel like I've been forever researching for this part, as I didn't want to write something obviously wrong. Also, because I'm working in a possible Big Bang in this Universe, and I had to do a timeline and make sure where it fell with Criminal Minds canon and Real Life events. And because Gideon plays an important part in bringing Reid into Law Enforcement, both in canon and in my AU. And because I wanted to mention a few events in undercover!model!Spencer's life that have been living in my mind and that I expect you'll find interesting ;). Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you prefer to comment on LJ, go [here](http://898700.livejournal.com/2803.html).


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